


Lipstick

by double_negative



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Delusions, Gen, Hallucinations, Insanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/double_negative/pseuds/double_negative
Summary: Some say that if you stare in your reflection's eyes for too long, you can see it blink before you do.





	Lipstick

**Author's Note:**

> I feel sick.  
> That's the only mood I can write in anymore.

_Rex tremendae majestatis_  
_Qui salvandos salvas gratis_  
_Salve me, Fons Pietatis_  
_Salve me, Fons Pietatis_

Some say that if you stare in your reflection's eyes for too long, you can see it blink before you do. Some say you can see the visions of hell in the specles of color that float inside your irises. Kefka is not sure what he's looking at anymore, but he still looks for something, anything.

His reflection is warping, shattering and regrowing itself before his eyes even if he's sure, as sure as he can be these days that the mirror stays intact, still, unyielding and whole. Every time he reaches out to touch it, his hand meets the cold glass, even if he sees his hands sinking through, clutching at something deep inside the sharp void behind his reflection. He punches and claws, but it does not give despite his newfound tremendous strength and he's not even angry anymore, just confused and bitter.

His reflection smiles at him and he's not sure if he's smiling with it. Splotchy red lipstick spread over his lips, overdrawn cupid's bow and stretched out corners, it crackles and seeps into his skin, through his abused bitten flesh into his blood. He used to chew on his lips until he drew blood, it hurt so much and he was trying not to scream, it hurt and hurt and hurt to have his body pumped with magic.

Now he's not sure anyone would come if he screamed. He can yell and laugh and rant and rave and no one would answer, his servants, his disciples knowing better than to disturb their Lord, their God when he's in one of his "moods". The only one who dared to come near him anymore was Leo, but he's no more, Leo is dead, he killed him, he killed him, he killed him with his own hands, Leo was a traitor, he couldn't possibly understand, he was too idealistic, too pure, too unbroken and stoic, but he was always there and now he's gone, Kefka killed him.

Kefka used to love mirrors, watching his own double grimace alongside him, applying makeup, garish, dramatic and colorful, but so perfect, pristine, precise, like painting a masterpiece of himself every single day. Now his reflection is feverishly shaken, his cheeks sunken and sickly hot, reddish mess all over his skin and he knows he did not apply rouge this morning, he knows, he's sure, he's sure of it, he's not sure anymore.

Is it blood?

There's a choir singing in his head, flies buzzing around, feeding on his thoughts, maggots crawling all over, their swarming trembling mass so loud, so clear it sounds like music, but when he tries to hum along with the tune it comes out broken, unsteady, wavering and stuttering, a broken record, a shattered glass that can no longer hold water, he knows if he tries hard enough, he will let the insects out and there will be so many they will cover up the sun in clouds of fluttering dark wings. He knows that if he tears at his skin, it will give, unlike the mirror, his flesh will tear away under his claw-like fingernails, but he knows he won't see blood, he won't see meat and gore, only a mess of insects and magic.

It's magic that did this, soaked through his body like water, took way like a flood, like a wave, swiping everything that was him, that was his, away, driving it into the deepest recesses of his mind, soaking and ruining what little humanity that was left within him. Maybe his fingertips are still his, still untarnished, maybe the curling ends of his blond hair still belong to the person he used to be.

If he tries he can still see them, twisting tubes and needles going right into his body, deep under his skin, filling him with power, and pain, and so much more power, power he was never supposed to have. Maybe if he tries hard enough he can tear them off, pull them out, spilling the blue Magitek glow all over himself, but no longer inside, no longer his own, just smeared over him like makeup, painting a masterpiece over him and not carving inside, away at his flesh.

The lipstick is dry, flecking off when he stretches his lips around a smile over and over. He's not sure, he doesn't know, the only thing that's clear anymore is that he wanted this. He wanted this. He was the only one who could handle this. He was the only one worthy enough. He was the only one good enough. Every single one of them losers, quitters, whiners, every single one of them weak, pathetic, imperfect, so unlike him. Even Leo. Oh, Leo. Leo is dead.

Is it his blood?

His reflection laughs. It's grating, like nails on glass. Maybe it is.

It sings from inside him, rising and ebbing away, his magic, his power.

He laughs with it.

_Damnata, invisus, ubique_  
_Ab omnibus, ad infinitum_

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely inspired by Eurielle - City of the Dead from which I borrowed the lyrics in latin. They translate to: "Oh, King of tremendous majesty, you, who save through Graces those who are to be saved, save me, source of Piety" and "Damned, hated, everywhere, by everyone, forever!"


End file.
